


And the song of wolves

by Reyavie



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Celtic Mythology, Greek and Roman Mythology, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Drabble Collection, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Incest, Not-so-Sibling relationship, Romance, Sibling Relationship, Tumblr Prompt, What-If Situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-06 12:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: One-shots and drabbles written occasionally for tumblr and dumped here for safekeeping.1. heimdall, time travel2. skadi, mourning3. heimdall&sigyn, soulmate symbols4. cassandra, different times5. cassandra, remembrance6. eris, possession7. arthur&morgan, regret8. arthur&morgan, stolen9. nuada&itzpapalotl, crossover10. arthur&morgan, goodbye11. helen of troy&morrígan (cassandra)12. arthur&morgan, departure13. guinevere&morgan&arthur, hidden14. alexander the great&eris, prayer15. morgan&merlin, confrontation16. ares&eris, favorite goddess/modern ages





	1. hear my heartbeat.

**prompt** , time travel.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

The man was tall, consistently broad and thick like an elder tree. Bright and young, strong like only a son of the Asgard could be in the prime of his life. The Guardian of Asgard in all its glory.

Standing in front of him, traces of white skin covered in dirt and blood, blemished with trails of grotesque remains hanging on the half-destroyed armor, Heimdall felt like a monster. His identity could not be discerned, he knew. Hair was covered, face hidden in fur and skin and the darkness of a cloak. A monstrous sword rested against the floor, tightened between broad hands and tinged in as much red as the man itself.

At his feet, laid his victim.

Loki, brother to the King, laid dead, broken and bloodless on the stony floors of the halls he had called home.

“Do not pity him,” Heimdall whispered to the Guardian, as the man’s all-seeing eyes rested upon the maimed body. His voice was broken, grating unpleasantly against his own will. “He is a murderer. Was. He was. Will be. He will… no, would. He would break and play with the Gods that claimed him as kin. He would give origin to our end and laugh as we attempted to defend our world. He would not care otherwise. Why did Odin take him? Why did he bring him to us? I warned him so many times.”

The guardian of Asgard had revered honesty, direct and blunt actions which brought safety to his people. Loki was a snake. Slither through the stones, little snake, whisper in the ears of powerful and play with their lives. He had been Odin’s brother though and kin to Asgard. In the past, he had been protected.

But not from him. Not from a man from the future who knew him better than he knew himself.

The Guardian’s hands gripped Gjallarhorn.

_Gjallarhorn_. His eyes were drawn to it slowly.  Oh, how he missed it. It had been destroyed, hadn’t it? Would be? Wherever it was, it did not rest in his hands, at his belt, its magic softly singing in his ears as watched his city.

Heimdall smiled almost kindly.

“Do not worry with Gjallarhorn. The snake hit well, you see. I knew it would.” The cloak was pulled aside. The silver armor was punctured straight through. Gruesome, the God realized, a gruesome wound only the most skilled would be able to cure if warned in time. Flesh was blackened with ash and soot, blood dripping from skin into places where it had been blasted away. “There is no time,” the man continued lightly (too lightly, too comfortably). “There was no time back then. There is little now for you to know what must be known.”

“I know all I must,” the Guardian argued. “You have killed the All-father’s brother. Your death is certain. Your punishment after it will have no end.”

His breath broke. Slightly. Barely. “You must know more.” Bloodied hands reached from bloodied clothing and pushed it back to show what was beneath. White skin covering a broad body, covered in dirt and blood and blemished beyond words, blond hair which had been bright and fair, now singed and destroyed. The pain, he could barely feel. Soon enough, he would feel nothing else.

The guardian found himself looking at a mirror. It was He. It was him. It was someone who looked like him and sounded like him (if all tragedy in the world had passed through him and left its mark). It was a fake, his mind would whisper. It could only be.

“You will think it is a spell,” Heimdall continued, the image in the mirror continued before the guardian could deny what stood in front of him. “You will think it is a lie. Yet, you can listen to my words. You can hear my heartbeat. No lies will pass through my lips. Guardian, this man would live among us. He would marry one of us. He would give origin to monsters and gift them as cattle. In the future, these children would destroy our Father, brothers and sisters, even drag _her_ into his doom. What else should be sacrificed to his whims?”

Even as Heimdall spoke, he knew the Guardian would not hear properly. The murderer’s words would not reach him. His voice would not change him. Even his image would not make him doubt. He had been too righteous then, too comfortable in his moral and honor.

“You think me a liar. And yet, you hear my heartbeat,” the man repeated. “Asgard recognizes me, little self. Why do you think I came this far? Why do you think it welcomed and guided me onto the traitor’s halls? No. I am here and I am me and you know the truth. Loki would be our end. But not anymore.”

He smiled.

“I care not what you think now, guardian. I will walk to die and none will be able to explain the death which has occurred. That is fine. He rests dead.”

He knelt on the bloodied floor. Grass moved to cradle his skin, growing against his skin in soft caresses. None touched the body of the King’s brother. None of this, Heimdall seemed to notice. His eyes were above, lost in the night sky, forgetting he had company to begin with. The magic which had brought him there was fading, consuming his flesh and mind as it did so.

That was fine. _That was all fine_. The traitor lay dead and Ragnarok was averted.

“I did it, my love. May you not suffer. May none of us do.”

Stars reflected in his eyes. 

In that last moment, he swore he heard her voice calling.


	2. salt-scented snow.

**prompt** , mourning

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

The body is brought to her home, dismembered and exsanguinated, white against the snowy stone, cold against the icy mountain which saw her born. It is not her father anymore, Skadi realizes. It is not laughing, it is not warm, it is not alive and well and calling her to watch the setting sun as the snow falls. It is dead and it is not her father.

Her hands weave the shroud roughly, the black of the south replaced with animal skins barely held together. It does not matter. A little warmth to be brought to an empty vessel and nothing else because this is not her father. Her father had a smile as bright as a thousand stars and the strength of a thousand men. This is dead and it not her father.

Asgard expects her to cry, she knows.

Instead, Skadi buries the remains of what once was a good man amidst snow and ice and hale and stands tall. Covered in animal fur and crowned in stone, silver weapons at her waist and a bow which he made for her countless ages before grasped between her fingers. Stands tall and stares them all down, one by one; these men of Asgard which crossed into her terrain, her land, with her father’s body like they expect her to crack and fall at their feet.

She will not. She is ice and snow and hale and everything which now protects what was once a good man, a good warrior, the best father she could have had. And her heart, that one burns, bleeds, breaks until she cannot breathe and she know it will not stop until her fingers tighten on a throat, until she rips a heart out and slashes it into a thousand pieces, until her father’s murderer is as dead – as nothing – as the body resting in the frozen ground. Ice cannot cry. Neither can snow or hale or the storms in the savage nights. She will not.

First, she will make them bleed.

“You will take me to your King.”

(All around them, the snow falls, carrying the scent of salt.)


	3. soulmate's words on one's skin.

**prompt**. soulmate's words on one's skin.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

“Careful, my lady. These are dangerous lands.” His hands steady her, push her upwards until she can stand properly. Even when stable, however, she does not pull away. The beautiful woman (because she is pretty, whispers a traitorous part of him which is usually silent) stays within the circle of his arms, her fingers digging against his skin as if he is her only support against the earth. Her eyes are brown, her hair a touch darker, her figure lithe and lovely against his armor. _Improper_ , some old lesson dictates on his mind. _Step back_.

He does not.

She does not.

“You should not wander,” he tells this unknown woman, wandering through his territory as if the stories of the sullen watcher bother no one.

Her eyes swim with tears, of happiness maybe (of something else; darker and more tragic). “It is you. I searched for so long.” No. No. These words. Heimdall knows these words. He has avoided them for centuries, ignored the steady writing swimming through his skin, down his ribs only to fade against his chest. “I am to marry another.” Her words against his flesh burn his heart to ashes. They always did. Ever since he was old enough to stare at himself in the mirror and read the mate to his soul promising herself to another. She raises the sleeve of her dress, enough for him to read the scribbled ’ _you should not wander_ ’ against her skin. His handwritting.

“I’m sorry.” Her smile is drowned in unshed tears. “I’m too curious.”


	4. all lies and forked tongues.

**prompt**. gods/mythological figures lost in different centuries.

 **characte** r. cassandra of troy.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

Cassandra is twelve when she is brought into that place. Useless in the factory, eyes too far gone into the distance, words in her mouth and mind that scare her mother to her bones. _Witch_ , the woman calls her child, _abomination, you are a witch and I will not suffer you_. She does not, the silly woman. She closes her dream-like child in between four walls and iron bars, surrounded by white coats and sullen faces. It is a good place, they assure her. She will be safe, from herself and others.

Lie, lie, lie, all lies and forked tongues.

Twelve years and she wears again metal on her wrists, iron shackles replacing the bracelets of another lifetime. Twelve years and she dresses in white coarse fabric, sometimes bloodstained, sometimes not, sometimes darkened by dust and grime and soiling of others, sometimes not. Twelve years and she knows the worst of mankind just as she knew it before. Surrounded by four walls, sullen faces and a wooden horse filled with poison.

“Come on, sweetheart. Time for your medicine.”

Cassandra does not scream when they place the electrodes on her head. She does not scream when they run electricity through her body, trying to kill what cannot be killed. She does not even curse Apolo or her mother for her ruin. It is her own fault. Troy fell. She killed them. Her fault. All her fault.

Her eyes close softly, even as her teeth grind against the leather which keeps her from biting her tongue, from choking and ending this existence in bloodied fashion.

 _Hector_ , Cassandra whispers in her mind, _so very sorry. So sorry._

“Who is that one?” One of the nurses comments as he handles the prone woman into a wheelchair. “Hector. Wasn’t it a woman last time?”

His companion shrugs.

“Does it matter?”


	5. there is still hate.

**prompt**. refusal

 **character(s)**. cassandra, aeneas.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

Xeroderma Pigmentosum. Cassandra is two years old when she’s diagnosed, her mother tells her, an event which keeps her secluded between four bright walls and partial darkness in order to live past childhood. To her, it is funny instead of tragic, how not even her parents understand she accepts her condition and loves it so very much. The white walls and the lack of direct light, the protection and seclusion…Cassandra is special still but cared for, loved and not disbelieved.

The sun harms her skin, burns it quickly and painfully even through the smallest fringe of uncovered glass. It is not an illusion. It is not deception. It is her body negating _Him_ with her every breath and no one ever calls her a liar.

It makes her smile. 

It makes her grin.

It makes her laugh every time someone calls her prisoner of the night, even though she leaves with Selene’s eyes on her form every twelve hours to breathe the fresh air. Here, Cassandra lives past her twenty years. Protected, safe, loved.

“Should we go home? It’s getting early.”

Her husband takes her hand in his and tugs her towards the house.  _Sometimes she sees the helm on his head, feels like calling his real name only to see his reaction. To tell him how he should have been with her to begin with instead of Creusa. Sometimes she wants to thank him so much for loving her in this manner, without reservation, without caring for the sunlight, that it is almost a physical need to speak_ _but_ no words leave her lips. The past is past, deep and buried, and time is running out. They need the walls and lack of light. She does. He does for her.

“I still hate you,” the woman whispers to the first rays of light. She does it every day, every single morning while she stands on the house’s threshold.

Arms tug her closer, envelop her in love and care. If he notices how he holds her tighter in this particular moment ( _every day, every day_ ), she doesn’t tell him. The man hates _Him_ too even though he doesn’t know or understand why. It is beneath his skin, buried with the King he once was.

“What are you up to, love?” Lips touch her temple and linger ( _every day, every morning_ ). “Sun is about to rise. You’re going to burn.”

“Appreciating how angry _He_ must be,” she answers truthfully for the countless time. “ _He_ doesn’t like when things get out from under his thumb.”

Another kiss against her skin even as the man pushes her into his shadow. Where the God cannot reach for her. Where the God cannot harm her anymore. Where she is no longer his possession to ruin.

“One day you need to explain to me what that means, babe.”

Cassandra never does.


	6. they say it's blind but it will seal your fate.

**prompt.** possession

 **characters** ; ares, eris.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

Eris doesn’t come immediately. The war doesn’t interest her nearly as much as the confusion it causes. Up till that point, she had been happy to sit on the banister of a nearby balcony, legs swinging over the abyss, watching carelessly as the city burned. She would have kept in that very same position if she hadn’t heard a pained shout, felt that shift in the streets below.

Without thinking overly much, the woman jumps on the battleground and searches. A little red-haired hound with sharp blades instead of claws, she carves her way through the crowds until she finds her goal. A distracted God and a walking corpse who should really know better. The poor dear.

The soldier stops just before he can touch Ares, the bloody point of a dagger slipping grotesquely through his throat.

“He’s mine.” Eris smiles, all toothy and red, all bloody and relaxed as if this is a ballroom and people aren’t dying all around. Those two words seal his Fate. He’s hers; foolish and loyal and strong and everything she’s not. He’s hers and the second anyone was idiotic enough to touch him was the second they annoyed her enough to push her into this battle she has no interest in.

Her dagger twists sharply forcing a bizarre sound from the soldier’s spinal cord.

“Eris?” The woman raises herself to caress her brother's cheek with her stained fingers (four welts, four red trails of someone else’s life) with a smile that only grows. Her forehead to his. It’s a loving gesture. There’s no fear – _she would never show it_ – or horror – _that’s what she is, after all_ \- ; there’s only a type of love so possessive that it could shatter kingdoms.

“Rest, brother dear. I’ll take care of everything.” Her lips touch his skin and she turns away, making sure to carefully dig her heels onto the soldier’s corpse until bones shatter under the pressure.

Chaos isn’t blind or patient. Chaos is dark and bloody and possessive and they will burn this day for touching what’s hers.

In the midst of slaughter, Eris hums the dead to sleep.


	7. but i feel it still.

**prompt** , regret.

 **character** s; morgan, merlin, arthur.

 **notes** ; half-sister to Arthur, sorceress and healer, married once to Urien, mother to Yvain. Implied incest.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

  
  
Merlin once asked her if she regretted anything. It was funny, actually. Merlin was the wisest of Camelot, all-knowing and ever wise, always knowing the answer before the question could be done. Old, ancient, lovable Merlin. He had looked at her so steadily, wondering almost like a child, like she was a maze he could not decipher. In a way, she was. Women are always mazes, always confusion, warm and cold, back and forth and Morgan, of them all, was the brightest. Burn strong, strike strong.  
  
_Do you regret anything in your life? Do you wish things were different? Would you like to change the past, to go back, to undo, to be more than what you are now, to be higher or lower, leave petty grievances and hopes you cannot fulfill? Would you, do you, will you?_  
  
The answer would take days to compose so she does the obvious gesture. Touch his cheek, laugh, linger just a moment and fade away, laughter in her wake and happiness in her gestures. He is a man. Why give him an answer he cannot understand?  
  
Morgan knows her reply. Her life is a tragedy, after all. Murdered father, taken mother, taken body and pushed into someone’s bed without permission, hated, feared, hated hated always hated because she knew more and wished to learn until her last days. She lived as she loved, burning and everlasting and that was how she liked it. A fire is short, lasts just the slightest moment and leaves a mark. Just like everything in her life. They come, they are taken away. A tragedy.  
  
The sorceress knows her reply. She does not regret and yet she does, because so many things could have gone better. Her father could have been protected, her mother could have been satisfied, her brother would not have been born. But then, what then? What would she be without who she was, magic and fire and happiness which none understand? Even Guinevere’s envy was proof of it – _because it was envy driving her footsteps, she wished her freedom, wanted her happiness, wished what she could not have and Morgan was it._  
  
She doesn’t regret anything. Father was taken and she could not stop it. Mother chose her path. Brother was taken and crowned. She lived and thrived and loved, every day, always, learned and healed and laughed when called a witch, laughed more because she is one, enchanter and lover and they could only wish to be her. Even _she_ wants it and she envies.  
  
“Morgan?”  
  
She doesn’t regret a thing. Merlin, Urien, Yvain Lancelet or Accolon. She doesn’t regret Arthur – especially Arthur. And she doesn’t regret what she’s doing, what she’ll do tomorrow, who she’ll betray, who she’ll save, who she’ll destroy.  
  
“Morgan?”  
  
_She never regrets._  
  
A hand touches her cheek softly, very tenderly, very careful as if worrying she’ll break with too much pressure. And she knows who it belongs to. Only he comes after her, always forgiving, always defending and what his wife says doesn’t matter because they are blood and he loves her in this way that’s more than words, more than actions, more than anything she can imagine. And tenderly as always, he cleans her tears away – when did they appear? – and smiles that boyish smile she loves so much.  
  
“Are you well?”  
  
His hand stays right on her cheek and goes nowhere, tracing it carefully, up and down, up and down because he never sees her crying. Blond and beautiful, he is. Almost as beautiful as he is noble. A little more than he is strong. It is so hard not to love him, she realizes – and not regrets – kind and sweet, always truthful. It is too hard to say a sharp word. It is why she always comes back to this place, even when the world hates her and none forgives.  
  
“Yes,” she finds her hand resting on his and her lips meeting his skin as she smiles. Both without consent because that is what she is, wild and turning, fire and rain all at once. “You need not to worry, dear one.”  
  
Morgan doesn’t regret a thing and even less when by his side. Except for one thing.  
  
_That Arthur was born her brother._


	8. i am a rebel just for kicks.

**prompt,** stolen.

 **characters** ; morgan, arthur.

 **notes; incest**. Bypass if the squick bothers.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

There is no moment Morgan hates her sister-in-law more than when she disappears into Lancelot’s arms. Not because of a crush she might have had or how the queen has all that the sorceress might have wished even. Oh but every time she disappears, Morgan needs to watch Arthur like this, standing lost in the middle of dancing couples, wearing the mask of the King over badly healed wounds, and all she wants to do is to cut Guinevere’s blood slowly into a cup and use her life for the most useless magic she can conjure. He is her brother, her king, the greatest man living in this world – _hers, hers, hers_ – and the queen squanders him with a betrayer.

From that moment into this, all it takes is an impulse and a hallowed hallway,

They kiss. They kiss against the harsh castle walls, hidden by shadows and veiled by the late night. Once and twice, thrice and then again, only to return as soon as their lips separate and she has gasped enough breath into her lungs. Morgan feels him attempt to move even closer. He is curious, she knows, she feels, she dreads when his fingers attempt to release her hair and tiptoe against the mask covering her features. This is a spell though, the magic of one night, one sin never to be discovered. Her hands reach for his and entwine. Harden. Warn. Stop.

She sins and cares little. If their priests are right, she is already damned. Arthur though, he deserves better. The light of the Heavens and caring of the skies. He does not need to know how she craves this, how she wishes she could demand his touch today and tomorrow and all the days after. All he needs to do is forget loneliness and that, solely that, she can give.

The following day their eyes meet - blue against blue, the image in the mirror – and Arthur smiles. Smiles widely, smiles gently, smiles wickedly, in a way that makes her want to walk forward and hide it between her lips, the foolish man.

“Morning, sister.” Gods above, that smile. “Will you break your fast by me?”

His hand reaches for hers underneath the table and fingers entwine.

“The mask was quite useless,” he whispers.


	9. from commander to servant.

**prompt** , from commander to servant, crossover.

 **characters** ; nuada airgetlám, itzapapalotl.

 **note** s; celtic mythology + aztec.

**xxxXXXxxx**

The servants bring her in shackles towards the King, dumping her at his feet like an offering to a cruel God. And that is what he seems when Itzpapalotl pulls herself up; menacing, strong, impossibly tall, blond and beautiful even when covered in blood (especially when stained by red and grime) almost unattainable in a manner she cannot quite put into words.

“You fought bravely, Lady. I will give you that.”

There are shackles in her wrists and a bloodstained King holding her leash.

The Goddess bows.

* * *

Her name is taken away. It is savage, odd, impossible to pronounce for their archaic tongues. Itzpapalot knows this because the King himself has tried several times to pronounce it correctly, only to fail miserably and apologize most unbecomingly right after.

“Your Majesty!” One of his advisors calls out. “You cannot take her with you! She is an enemy!”

Nuada stares down at the man before turning his eyes to where she stands, straight and unbent, close enough to wonder about the small smile which touches the God’s lips.

“Are you an enemy, my Itzpa?” The possession in his tone is far stronger than the metal gracing her flesh, as if the sounds alone traced connections all over her heart and mind and tied her tightly to the larger man. “Will you cut my throat the second I turn my back to you?”

They do not understand, these men that advise him. He fought her, dominated her, submitted her to his rule. She is his, for now, for the years to come, until the time when he raises his arms against her in open battle and she pushes him against the floor.

“I am yours, my Lord King. I follow.”

His smile widens as he turns to his lesser.

“There you have it, my Lords. She will battle by my side.”

Nuada doesn’t know her for long, Itzpapalotl realizes, and yet, he understands. There is little way she will allow anyone to take his death from hers. Into battle they go, the King always on the foreground where all action happens and she right behind, clawed wings keeping his back protected.

* * *

“What are you doing? My King!” Her voice doesn’t even sound like hers to her own ears. The battle has raged on like so many, the cries of the dead and dying ringing like a familiar tune to the dark-haired goddess. Surprise is not something she accepts well. To see her King laying on the floor, a bloody stump where an arm once lay, to hear him groan in pain with each movement and still force himself to stand because his opponent remains undefeated is unacceptable. “Stay down, my King,” her hands press on his shoulders, try to take him to safety but Nuada hears nothing of it.

“I am the King,” he declares, each tone heavy with agony as he struggles to raise and find his enemy. “It doesn’t matter what may happen at the end of the day. Here and now, I am King. Here and now, I won’t leave him alive.”

His challenge goes unanswered, of course. No man would battle a one-armed man when two arms guarantee a victory and Itzpapalotl can see the strain ripping through her King’s expression when he is denied the chance to protect his people. If he was a lesser man, Nuada would have cried. She knows he would.

Instead, the battle ends by its own means, the dead are gathered, the wounded healed. Even the King is.

Somewhat.

“Thank you, my Lord Nuada,” the Tuatha whisper as they pass (but do not bow, do not allow him to lead, do not look at the silver appendage which replaces his brutal wound). “We are most grateful.” (but they act as if he is diseased, is a disease, will carve horror onto their land for some reason she cannot understand).

 _Here and now_ , she remembers him saying, _here and now_ , _I am King._

“I am no longer King, my Itzpa,” Nuada explains to his sole audience. “Only an unblemished may rule the people of Danann and I am no longer that.” His newly acquired metal arm moves, fingers close on thin air only to open once more as if looking for feeling. “You can follow Bres. You should.”

All of this is for his wound? A wound such as that is a badge of honor! It means he has fought and won! She opens her mouth to say this, to yell it to all the winds because Maker knows they should hear it, be bashed with the truth, be forced to kneel just as she had in the past and be grateful for the lives he has bought with his blood. Nuada’s expression, however. It is sad, accepting. He knows his people better than she does. This is a law, one of those she does not understand (how could she, the savage, understand the concept of purity when her mind is filled with the concept of _loyalty_ ).

“ _You_ fought me. _You_ defeated me. I follow _you_.”

Her hand grips the silver appendage caring little for the way he shivers against her warmth. It seems this will be something she must beat out of him.

“I am yours, my Lord King.”

* * *

In exile, Nuada is more contemplative. There is time to wonder about the past and the future and sadness permeates his demeanor. Still, Itzpapalotl finds that it is easier to push him out of it as time goes by. To be a King is to be an ideal (a ridiculous one, in her opinion). Little by little, the rejection is pushed to the background where it doesn’t hurt nearly as much and the warrior can, at least, pretend to be satisfied. Few visit their tower, fewer wonder why the former warrior slave remains with the uncrowned King (always by the right side, fingers trailing down his silver arm) and those who ask receive no answer.

There are no Kings and Queens in their Tower. There is Nuada, her Lord, who apparently forgets he is so. They live almost as comrades instead of Master and Slave. It is odd for the woman. Ever since abandoning her homeland, Itzpapalotl has not known peace which was not bought with blood. To stand still, to have a home and a man who attempts, in his own careless manner, to forget his origin is mostly odd.

Every time he calls her _my Itzpa_ , she feels it does not mean exactly what it once did. 

Itzpapalotl does not know how to feel about this.

* * *

The lesser come for him eventually, of course. Of course they would. The first person they meet, however, is not their former King. It is the death Goddess in all her anger, a large blade in her hands which has not touched flesh but her own for a long time, one which hungers for their blood and essence more than she for revenge. How dare they? Have they not used him enough? She rages against the two visitors, dares them to walk forward to where she stands. Her wings open aggressively, spears and spikes and _spite_ carved into butterfly wings and bone.

“Itzpapalotl.”

Nuada’s voice rings through the air. It is an unspoken order, an edict by a King that pretends to forget he is once.

 _Do not harm my people_ , she hears in the sole word, _allow them entrance. They are not to blame. They merely followed our laws_.

In that moment, she hates Nuada. Him and his rules and laws which are the pretext which he uses to not feel abandoned by those he swore to serve and protect. _You are a fool_ , Itzpapalotl wills him to understand even as she allows Miach to enter and explains his purpose. _You are an idiot_ , she tells him soundlessly as Miach explains how he can give Nuada his arm back, how he can return to home to his people. _You are too loyal_ , she yells on her own mind when the former King accepts.

“Do you truly want this?” The Goddess asks him as soon as the younger man disappears to gather his supplies. “You do not need flesh and blood to rule. You should not have to be perfect. You are perfect as you are.”

The silver hand is cold against her cheek. Light and careful.

“How else will I be useful to my people?”

 _Idiot,_ she yells once more.

“How else will I take you away from this place? How else can I give you what you deserve, my Itzpa?”

The hand slips to the back of her head, pushing it against his broad shoulder. Standing so close, she cannot see what expression her King is wearing. She does not even know her own, at that. Only that there is something tightening in her chest, crushing everything inside her bones until she cannot breathe. All the while, Nuada’s head rests on hers, light touches drifting from skin to hair.

“You do not need to do anything for me, my King.”

His chuckle travels through his body, down his arm, through her skin right onto her bloodstream.

“How else will I show you my gratitude?”

Whatever answer Itzpapalotl will give him, it becomes lost as the healer returns and they separate abruptly. There are no words exchanged between the two as the work is done. The spells fill the hours, the silence of the Tower where the few servants peek in in curiosity. Nuada, that one merely waits patiently, watching as the silver is slowly replaced by warm flesh; tendons and muscles, bone and veins and blood and everything in between.

When it is done, his blue eyes find the healer’s and his smile is the same as she has ever known since the last battle. Half pensive, slightly sad, a little mocking.

“You did not gift me my right arm back,” Nuada declares simply. “I have never lost it.”

Miach seems confused at the odd comment and no one seems ready to explain it further. By the right side of the King, the Goddess smiles finally, her fingers trailing over newly renewed skin, searching for the scar which is hidden deep within.

* * *

The following day finds them on the Tower’s entrance. Nuada has once again donned his armor (silver now, she has made sure), bright sword against his back and a red cloak which takes the place of the life-energy which will soon stain him. It reminds her of the day she first met him on the battlefield. Before she knew he was a fool, an idiot, a loyal silly man who thought far too much of others.

“We were not unhappy here, were we?”

What a silly question. “No, we were not,” Itzpapalotl reassures him. “Though I did lose all my respect for you, my King.”

“Nuada,” he corrects.

“My King Nuada.”

His eyes roll (she knew they would) and then stare at her. Up and down, running through her arm, down her bony wings, up her unbraided hair, all the while with that small smile which so rarely adorns his lips. The one that whispers happiness. That touches possession. Without words, he reaches to the package on his waist and draws something out.

Circular, metallic, silver.

It is a crown.

There are no shackles upon her bar the one tight on her heart. Bar the one Nuada holds in his hands as offering.

“I am yours,” he tells her slowly. Lowly. A whisper which could be mistaken by the wind around them if spoken more softly. “Will you come with me, my Itzpa?”

She lowers her head.


	10. one last journey.

**prompt**. _one last journey_.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

The boat is painfully slow. The waves crash against the wood, every shake of which makes all its occupants flinch in anxiety. There’s hope and there’s not, there’s certainty in a good end for their journey but the reality is in front of them. A bloodied man, bandages wrapped as carefully as the woman had dared, his hand in hers so cold that she rubs it softly without thinking.

Morgan wants to hope and dares not. She should have known this would happen. For all her power, for all her foresight, she should have been in the city, by his side, behind his throne as she was supposed to. But she had been so convinced he didn’t need her. Defender of the weak, protected by a whole table of knights, she was just the sister who had been left, the healer, the one who bent the rules again and again. She had left him protected by family and, when she returned, she found a house in flames and her family in tatters.

He is the last. Arthur, her brother, her king. And her love is so great for him that it has little words to explain it. And her fear, that one is even greater, almost as great as her guilt and the slower interval between his breaths.

She wants to speak to him. She wants to apologize, to lie, to say everything will be alright. She wants to cry, pretend this is all a bad dream. Morgan isn’t a child though. Hasn’t been for a long time. And neither is he. His eyes, open in between bouts of delirium tell her that.

“We are going home,” her voice speaks nevertheless, a whisper in the silence and the others matter. He does. If only she could give him her life, if only she had been there, if only she had stopped Mordred, if only. “You will be healed and become strong again. And then, we will return. Camelot and its banners in the morning sun, do you remember, brother?” Tears. Ah, the one who didn’t cry, who laughed and lived to the fullest, who understood death, that is a healer’s task.

“The first time I saw it. The nunnery was so constricting, brother. You do not understand. And then I see that jewel, so brute still. Just like you. You grew so much, my King. You grew until I was too small even for your shadow, until I could disappear into a corner of your city and not be found.” _Close your eyes, we will be there, breathe and we will be there soon, just hold on, it won’t take long_. Morgan finds she wants to beg – God or whoever can listen to her – but those would be wasted words. Warmth flees his skin just as life does.

Blue eyes. Light eyes, just like hers. They open slowly, unfocused, ignoring her tears, her face, all but her hand in his.

“Will… will it be all right?” Arthur mouths, he doesn’t speak. Or if he does, Morgan can’t listen between her gasped chuckle, sad, sad and heartbroken. It’s just like him. To worry about that city, his people, instead of himself.

“Always.”

The sorceress lies. Without its King, there will be no Camelot. He probably knows she is doing so too – _a tired smile touches his lips as her fingers brush his hair away, strands bathed in cold –_ He knows her so well.

“Will you stay with me. Until we arrive?”

She will; he will be the one to leave her

Morgan is a healer. She knows death as the palms of her hands, she knows it because it’s an old companion. It took her mother and father, it took her sisters and ripped her world apart. It took her nephews, those she loved throughout her path and of those there were many. This is another wound, deeper, deeper and she feels like she also cannot breathe. And this will kill her too, watching this will shatter something in her. But, for him. She cleans her tears, summons her best smile, young and happy and _look, the sun will come soon, so will Avalon, so will home_.

“Always, brother. Always.”

His free hand raises and touches her face, stupid foolish man, not keeping his strength to give her the semblance of comfort. Stupid man. Stupid, loving foolish man and no greater will come, Morgan swears, because illuminated souls come once every era.

“Rest,” again mouthed, almost silent, his hand guiding her check against his chest, the slow heartbeat on her ear. “I will rest with you.”

Morgan doesn’t. Keeps her eyes open until sunrise, until he leaves her behind, the solid sound beneath her slowing to a halt. And it’s fitting, sunrise and someone to mourn him, he who brought light to wherever he walked.

She does not move until the boat touches the shore of Avalon.


	11. like kin called to kin.

**prompt** , divine

 **notes** ; companion piece to [Two crows cried and the third could not fly at all ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12562048).

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

There is divine in both. Different types, different races and cultures, different women. Both know not what the other praises or values. One is as beautiful as the sunrise and attempting for a first rebellion. The other is as enigmatic as the crevice between worlds and searching for understanding. Mortal and immortal. They are not there for the same reasons and to understand each other would be impossible.

Yet, they stare at each other. Like kin called to kin.

Helen is the first to move. She reaches for the dark-haired woman, trailing soft hands over chiseled features and tugs her into an embrace. Perfume fills Cassandra’s nose, twitches, uncomfortable in the other’s arms and under her mortal mother’s gaze. The Divine in her bristles against a touch which should only be allowed under her choice and no other.

“Are you here to kill me?” The blonde whispers in her ears. “Are you here to take me back? Because I won’t. I will never allow anyone to take me into that prison. I am a daughter of God; I should be able to do my own choices.”

Half-closed hands fist the lovely dress, tugging until it is uncomfortable for both and a little more for the Greek half-goddess.

“Play your games, Greek,” Morrígan whispers (because it is Morrígan now, it is her even as Hector lingers by uncomfortably and Hecuba wonders and Paris dreams with that characteristic which will get him killed by her, even, when the time comes). “But when you take what is mine, I will make sure your punishment will fit the crime. And it not death you fear.”

They pull back, divine and divine and they could shatter that city apart if they were so inclined.

“You won’t take me back,” Helen repeats, a sheen that could be tears if it wasn’t hatred or fear or envy. If it wasn’t strength of a collared beast finally snapping her leash away.

The Crow smiles. “I will not kill you, even if that is what you want.”

Their eyes meet, blue and dark, and the spoken words cut like daggers.

“I will kill myself before you take me back.”

“I will hold your soul between my claws before you attempt to escape.” Helen feels something that might be a blade, might be a nail, tugging at the back of her spine. “Play your games, follow your path but these are my words. If this house falls, you won’t fall with it. I won’t allow you an escape.”

The two women release each other, stepping behind the line in the sand they have both drawn.

Nothing else needs to be said.


	12. i found you in her shadow.

 

 

**prompt:**[ morgalefay ](https://tmblr.co/mTgSc8Elzx1CfFEgKeEfe1A)over at tumblr _poked me to write some more arthurian meddling with arthur/morgan because she likes to read sad stuff, go figure. So here we go. Attention, no beta because I can’t read it anymore after obsessing over the past three days, sad, incest though not completely overt, character death referred a LOT (morgause) and more general sadness. Enjoy._

**xxxXXXxxx**

“You will let me pass right this moment, your majesty.”

Morgan’s voice did not waver as she faced her King. Covered in travelling clothes, dusty linen shirt and mud-splattered leather leggings which were just as dirty as the rest of her, she held herself as someone about to step into a battleground. The courtyard emptied the second she arrived. Not because of an order a wish to offer the royal siblings time and space to grieve. No.

The sorceress had brought with her the storm.

Wind rushed around them – it crushed his lungs, pressed against his skin, tightened against his heart and with it, the taste of rain and lightning at the tip of his tongue. Few had ever seen her like this. God, few times had he seen her like this; angry, hurt, dangerous, dark-colored eyes and blood on her fingertips. It was Morgause’s, he realized as he was drawn towards the color. It could only be hers. No other wound touched Morgan’s flesh except the one she carried within, deep and openly bleeding.

The skies above Camelot were answering the sorceress’s call. Cold mist descended against the castle walls, trailing drops of water down every stone.

“You cannot kill him, Morgan.”

“Is that so?” She asked conversationally, as if they were sitting for a cup of tea. As if nature itself was not raging around them, stomping over the grounds as the eye of the hurricane crawled closer. “You will find I can do much right now. I can throw you to a side. I can turn your city upside down until I find him cowering behind Gawain.” The sorceress raised her hands towards him. “I can even strangle him with my bare hands over my sister’s body.”

Thin brittle claws covered in pale skin. Long and sharp and _red_.

“Our sister,” he corrected gently, cautiously taking a step closer to her towering figure. “She was our sister.” Her hands did not harm him as he held them in his own, even as her nails clawed at his wrist and her eyes narrowed dangerously. All of her was careful tension, tightly reigned in. He could feel it drumming through his body, a warm and sickly feeling exuding through the skin he touched.

Close as they were, it was hard for Arthur to recognize Morgan in that moment. Her eyes had always been a mirror of his but they were darker now, thinner, light flashing over their surface in accord with the storm she was summoning. Her features seemed sharper, less refined and more aggressive. There was also rage. One firmly controlled, strongly held back as lightning cried above them. A shiver ran through his spine.

“You are being unfair,” he swallowed deeply, forcing himself to face her. There was judgement in her expression, plain in every inch. There was also sadness, deep and gripping, large tears being kept contained because the second she released them, she would not stop. “Morgause was my blood too. She was loved as well. You cannot—“

“Kill Lot’s spawn? Are you sure you can stop me, Arthur?” Morgan frowned, as if she could not understand him before laughter slipped through her lips. Unhinged and uncontrolled. “I am not sure I can stop myself.”

He did not understand magic, not at a logical level, but the soft shaking of her limbs spoke louder. The way her nails kept clawing at his skin for control.

“She was ours,” the woman continued slowly. “She was _mine_. Should you not have him destroyed? You have shared more with her than you have with anyone else, after all.”

The subject shifted under their feet. It was a tide, gathering every wave, every hurt they had ever grasped against each other but that had been hid underneath graceful gestures, magic, a golden crown and the figure of the king. Morgan did not seem to notice the effect her words had and merely barreled through.

“Was it not up her to choose a lover after the King threw her out of his bed? Was it not to her to be able to be free for once? That child had no right. He had no right. How could he? She was his mother. She loved him. How can someone raise a hand against someone who…” She closed her eyes, wrapping her fingers around his wrists and tightening.

Rain started falling.

“It was an accident. He attempted to get to Lamo…”

“Do not tell me what was or how it was, Arthur Pendragon!”

His sister finally – _finally_ – yelled as her composure broke. Her eyes opened, flashing blue in tandem with the light above and, with every word, her voice gained edges, sharp aggressive notes replacing the impassiveness she had shielded herself with until then. The rage on its surface almost made him step back. He couldn’t, he knew. If he did then, if he dared to fear her, they would lose her.

“I was always here!” She screamed above the storm. “I did not and do not hide from harsh truths! I did not care about Guinevere, I did not care about your blindness towards Lancelot, I did not care who or what you fucked because it had nothing to do with me! I care that she is dead at the hands of her own son because he slept with whom he considered his enemy! It was no accident! He _wanted_ to kill her! And you continue to close your eyes to the truth in front of you!”

The storm wailed around them with every lie, with every truth, with every word she uttered. Morgan cared. She cared so much that it bled from her body on the earth beneath them and the crying skies above them. And that hurt meld with the renewed one, it melded with his, it gathered and grew and grew until her breathing broke and he was sure she was crying beneath raindrops.

“I care because my sister is _dead_ and you are _doing nothing!_ ”

Whatever part of her that was still Morgan of Cornwall faded into the Fae and that creature was eating away at his sister, large bites with every second, slipping under her skin and engulfing her immortal soul. Dark hair became white roots, white strands, white curls in the rain. White stone eyes met his. White skin darkened to a scintillating grey. The fog grew around them, oppressive and thick as syrup, even as the rain pelted against their skin.

He was losing her as well.

Without thinking, Arthur stepped forward. He pulled his arms away from her hold only to trap her against his chest, pushing her forcibly until she could not move. Morgan didn’t struggle. She just stood still, impassive as the storm raged louder and crashed against the nearby towers.

“Please stop, Morgan. Please, I beg of you. I cannot be without you both right now.” She fit right inside his arms. Her head could lean against his shoulder, her hair so soft against his skin. Regret flooded his body, gods, why had he not done this before. He was the king, he could have had this, he could… He kissed her cheeks, her lips, her wet skin, again and again and between each, he prayed she was still capable of hearing him. Of understanding him. “Please, let us speak. Please, my heart, let us find a way to fix this.”

Arthur begged to her. He begged to God. He begged to his mother and Morgause and Elaine – wherever they were – to not allow Morgan to disappear even more into the mists. At some point, his face hid against her neck, his vision obscured by blinding light and his arms tight around her thin body.

He didn’t know how long they kept. A moment, an eternity, countless years as water fell upon them while nature cried with the small family. But her arms had moved. They had slowly tugged him closer and her hair; dark roots, black tresses. _We will be fine_ , he dared to think, _I will keep you._

And then, a human voice broke the moment apart. Gawain’s voice, shrill and fearful as it never was.

“Sire!”

Lightning smashed against the floor by the knight’s side.

No no no no. Not then. _Not then_. He had been so close. Arthur did not look for Gawain, he did not move away from Morgan, so close, closer than he had ever allowed himself to come even as he saw her retreating. The sorceress was back and she was greater, stronger in grief. Morgan did not matter then. She could not think then. She could not be there.

“Ser Gawain, you will step back us right now,” Morgan spoke softly. “Or I won’t be able to answer for your safety.”

Her smile was twisted, all of it sharp mirror edges.

“If I stay, I will kill all of them, one by one,” she continued. Her lips almost touched his but not _quite,_ fingers trailing upwards to frame his face in her hold. “If I stay, you will not be able to stop me. Merlin will not be able to stop me. Your knights will be smears of blood upon the floor and nothing will be left of Camelot bar ashes and memories. You know this.”

The sorceress paused. The King could swear the Gods were looking down, listening to every word.

“It is them or I, my darling. I am sorry.”

She could not. He could not allow her to. What kind of King would step back, what kind of uncle could accept murder, cold blooded murder? But, _whispered Morgan’s gentle voice in his mind,_ Gaheris had killed his mother, after all. He was guilty. He deserved punishment for harming his own blood, his King’s blood, of all things. Arthur would only have to step away for a moment. Close his eyes and allow her to act, as she so many times before had done. After all, Morgan was Morgan.

She did the wrong things _for all the right reasons._

The King shook his head, shook her words away. She was not right. He loved her – _and longed and wished and hoped_ –  but this was not justice. It was vengeance. No good King could allow vengeance.

“You could have controlled me to agree,” he realized, feeling the droplets of water starting to fade.

A twitch of her lips reminded him of the week before, of the month before. When everything was fine with their world and this was not required. She shuffled closer – if that was even possible – her arms tugging impossibly tighter as if she wished to push him inside her. Merge their skins, pull their bodies into one, anything that would stop what they could inevitably see in the horizon. “And you could kill me here and now to stop me.”

“But that’s not how we work.”

“It never was.”

She had freckles. Arthur didn’t know why he chose that particular moment to notice but, as her skin regained her normal pallor, those stuck out like a light in the night. Her eyes were naturally thinner than his – a gift from her father – her cheekbones higher and her jaw more curved. The King forced himself to see every trace, every difference because, come the morning, he wouldn’t see them anymore. If he would have stopped for a moment, he would have seen her doing the exact same thing, running her fingers through the curls underneath his crown, tracing his chin, drawing the scars on his skin.

“Take our sister to Avalon,” he declared, palming her cheek while memorizing every trace of her eyes. There was a line of light blue just inside. Almost invisible. He had never noticed. “I will keep them away until you leave.”

Gaheris had not stolen only their sister from them. He had stolen what was and could never be. He had forced a farewell which had taken a long time to come. In that moment, the hatred driving them apart was shared between brother and sister, as much as he would deny it come the morning.

“I thought she was you,” he confessed.

Her smile was the saddest thing he had ever seen.

Aware of Gawain – or because of him – she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his forehead. It was fleeting. (It was not enough). Before Arthur was aware of it, she had stepped back, stepped away from him. Her arms raised to the heavens as her brow furrowed and, with a sharp movement, she brought them down to her sides.

The rain stopped. Lightning became rarer and rarer until only dark clouds remained. A subtle threat, a clear warning. It was not over. That much was written over Morgan’s expression as she stood before him; sad, drenched and a little broken.

“Give her your _justice_ , your majesty,” his sister said simply. “I hope it is worth it.”

In the next moment, only light fell upon the place she had stood.

And even though he knew he was right, that not even the King was above the laws, that one could not repay a crime with another crime, the truth kept repeating itself over his mind.

Morgan had always been the price for his Morals.


	13. you make me dislike myself.

**prompt** ; hidden relationship. 

**warnings** ; implied incest.

**xxxXXXxxx**

The siblings sit, side-by-side, presiding over the assembly. They do not touch, no more than a single finger each, softly twisted on the arm of his throne, but their heads are turned towards each other and their lips move, precise syllables hidden in the middle of loud voices and strong music. There is confidence and trust and an intimacy entwining around her breath and cutting it short.

“You are in my place, dear sister.”

Morgan raises her head to her, eyes open and guileless like the most innocent child and the smile on her lips is sweet as honey. It looks amused. It feels amused, never mind that she is a grown woman with claws and smooth metal for bones, as that smile brings to mind a little girl caught in wrong-doing. Is this a spell, Gwen wonders, is this her magic at work? She does not ask, there is no time to, because her sister – Arthur’s sister, not hers – raises from Guinevere’s throne without hesitation, smoothly, dark purple velvet folding around her body in heavy arms and the gaze of the King carelessly does not follow.

 _See_ , her own voice whispers in the darkness of her mind, _why_ would you, why are you worried, why are you _unfair_?

“Purple does not seem to suit you,” spite and poison and resentment tumble out of her lips like the breath she cannot hold. “You look tired, Morgan.”

Arthur’s eyes crinkle in affection – to Arthur’s sister, always to her – smothering his sister in their hold and never have they looked more similar; Arthur in his blond, blue eyed glory and the dark-haired woman who is always kind, who is always nice, whose each word feels like a pat upon the Queen’s head and how can Gwen be so unfair because Morgan is nice. Morgan is kind. Morgan knows how to navigate the court and brings her gossip when her handmaidens cannot, she diverts attention when Gwen cannot handle it anymore, her arms are tight and her hands are strong whenever the queen’s body falters. It is unfair. She is unfair.

“Arthur believes it suits me.”

There is no crown upon her head as Morgan turns. There is a straight back, royal velvet, purple guise adorning aging beauty and a King’s contemplation upon her back.

She is unfair.

Isn’t she?


	14. the world trembles as they walk by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek about this. migraine turns every text more confusing than it should be, especially when written about eris. and yes, i know alexander the great is supposed to have prayed at athena but yay, odd texts.

Eris is Chaos –  hurricane, tsunami, the clash of weapons upon a battleground, the madman yelling in the market square. Humans stride for order. They run from her even as time, undoubtedly, drags them towards her hands. And yet, there is meat upon a plate and flowers and a steady fire which has been burned in her name. _Her name and no other._ Not Ares or Athena or Apollo. Not to her King Father and Mother.

“Why call upon me?” The Goddess asks the kneeling man silently. Gold crowned and battle weary, she reads on the man’s course skin, a warrior who is well-used to rule. Her eyes lock against the human’s, barely an inch apart, nose against nose, as if the closeness will bare his mind to her. Red hair (like hers), tanned skin (a shade lighter, a touch rougher), a kneeling figure which is more of a warrior than many she had seen (slain) upon these mortal plains. She should see inside it. _Him._ Slash it open, _unmake_ it. “I am not Apollo with His grand plans. I am not Athena or Hera, I don’t _inspire_. I shake things down to their foundations.”

The man-King does not answer. He prays instead, sings his wishes into omens that do not exist because humans pray her away not closer to their hearts. It is a new song. It is a beautiful song, all of it unordered rhymes and unexpected turns. _Take my father’s legacy_ and _make it larger_. _Shake this world of his and remake it mine. I want, I want, I want, Goddess._

The fire burns his offerings into ashes, slowly, slowly and each flare of the flame eats away at her heart.

Eris palms his cheeks between her hands, digs her nails onto his skin and watches. That need, that rush of possession, that urge to run forward and grip everything onto himself. That is him and that is her too, jealousy and want, and the apple no one would ever give _her_ or the ceremony no one invited her to because she _would break it_ , she _would ruin it_ , she would _be up to her old tricks_. This want, she recognizes. Few other Gods will, holding all they are and want so strongly in their hands.

Burnt offerings remain on a half-abandoned altar that few visit and many avoid when Alexander leaves.

A little girl follows him. A little redheaded girl, spear in hand, grinning up at the man who called out for chaos. No one else sees her. No one else is brave enough to or mad enough to or strong enough to. 

_The world trembles as they walk by._

* * *


	15. oh my dear old man, you have not loved.

prompt; confrontation

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

“You think I am your enemy? You think that I, of all people, am turning him against you?”

The woman almost laughed out loud in the middle of the crowded room, never mind the seriousness of the situation and the surprise caused by such a silly conclusion.

“Oh my dear Merlin,” her hand reached to palm his cheek. His eyes were so unlike Arthur’s, cold and old, blind as few she had ever seen in her life. A rush of pity filled her, head to toe. Poor old man, so wise, so ancient and yet, he had lived so little. “Tell me, have you ever been able to take something of Arthur’s?”

Both man and woman turned their gaze towards the throne. Arthur was presiding, as ever, the most sedated smile upon his lips. But they knew him. They knew the King. They had known the child, the boy and the man who now sat high, observing everything attentively and his eyes, oh that expression, it was for them, it was for Morgan’s hand touching Merlin and Merlin coming too close. It was for them because Merlin was stepping where he shouldn’t and meddling in a subject not his to touch.

Morgan allowed her hand to fall to her side, smiling back at her brother, even waving lightly when the tension did not abandon the King’s body as quickly as it should. The silly boy, thinking things without substance. Only when his fists released his throne (when the small tick upon his eyebrows faded, when his jaw relaxed and he returned from wherever dark thoughts had taken him) did Morgan turn back to the King’s advisor.

“It was never I that you would have to battle,” she commented blandly. The sorceress didn’t bother to hide her amusement, even as she allowed her hand to pat the advisor’s shoulder, as if he was one of her patients being particularly testy. “Take this up to your king, Merlin.”


	16. and the day lost in ecstasy.

**prompt** ; favorite goddess in modern times.

 **warning** ; some violence (?)

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

The day had been good so far. The bakery had opened on time, the boss had not yelled at him, goods had been sold. Everything was normal, boring, expected. And that should have been the first signal of warning. Not the flash of red hair on a small figure, the way the street door smashed against its hinges as she passed or even the parting of his clients like Moses rushing through the red sea.

That incredibly sweet normality which made one think of bored afternoons and long nights.

He definitely saw the second warning as the man he had been about to interact with was bashed aside with a spear, crashing into blessed unconsciousness onto the wall with nary a grunt.

He rubbed his eyes. Yes, it was a spear. And no, it did not disappear upon closer inspection. In fact, it came even _closer_ , too near for comfort as its owner jumped onto the counter and crouched; like a little savage cat with her steeled wooden talons. The girl’s eyes were as brightly red as the curls on her head.

Behind her, one of his regulars punched the man behind her square in the face.

The girl looked, at most, thirteen. Bony, small and lithe, a little angelic vision clad in a scarlet summer dress, tanned enough that her freckles were barely visible underneath the darkened skin. Her grin was all teeth, all sharp and entirely animalistic, lips painted the bloodiest crimson he had ever seen. He didn’t know why but his heart sped up to match the rhythm of her breathing, fast and unrestrained like a runaway animal.

“I’m not here to kill you,” the girl declared radiantly. “I’m just here for the bread!”

Oh. That was fine. It explained why she was spearing the nearest loaf instead of going for his head.

The back windows shattered into pieces.

“I must say, your service leaves a lot to be desired.” The girl tapped him on the shoulder with the end of the silvery weapon, bouncing lightly on the tip of her toes like one ready to spring forward. Those red eyes, narrow and slit like a snake’s, followed his every move. “Can I get this on a bag to go? Add three bagels and a sourdough. The family eats a lot.”

A table nearby splintered seemingly out of nowhere – as no one should have been strong enough to break metal into two. The policeman who, usually, guarded the nearest street corner used the brief moment of calm to attack the grocer next door with his teeth. 

As you do.

“Of course, ma’am.”

Trying to bag anything while violently shaking wasn’t easy. Who would have guessed it?

“Strife, I told you to let me go instead.”

No, no, _please God_ , no more people.

His prayers went unanswered. Raising his eyes fleetingly towards the street door, he was greeted by an apparition of rugged male beauty. Tall, taller than everyone inside the shop or anyone who had ever entered through the threshold. Everything about him was dark; dark hair, skin, eyes, scars, dark clothes. Muscles strained under leather, stone cracked under his feet and he felt the urge to run, start running and never stop again crouching under his skin and burrowing into his flesh.

“We can’t keep changing bakeries as you make them go out of business,” the newcomer bellowed, shooing the redhead towards the floor. The bag was suddenly out of his hands. “I’m sorry, human.”

Had he said _human_?

“This one has insurance, brother. I checked. Now relax, I got you a bagel.”

What did she mean with she _checked_?

The look of distaste on the man’s face was almost comical. “Tell me you cleaned the spear, at least.”

“Somewhere in time or recently?”

The taller man’s hand rested on the girl’s head, his expression extensively fond as both turned to the door. They even added a polite little nod before the door bashed noisily once they passed through, cracking its hinges before smashing onto the floor in a thousand shards of colored crystal. The environment inside felt like a hurricane had come and gone. Debris littered the floor and every single one of his dishes was split in half. There was not a  piece of furniture inside the space which was not ruined in some way or another.

His customers stared silently at each other, covering bleeding wounds like an afterthought.

Those conscious to do so, of course.

The old woman by corner coughed. There was a large cut running down her forehead all the way to her chin from where a piece of glass had grazed her. Her mind was obviously struggling to comprehend what in the world had happened. “Do you still have anything to sell? You know. Glassless?”

He licked his lips slowly.

“The whole store.”

Was Siberia nice that time of the year?


End file.
